


The Return

by CrowHorse1, Dreamsnake



Series: The Thranduil Collection [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 23:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowHorse1/pseuds/CrowHorse1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsnake/pseuds/Dreamsnake
Summary: Sometimes it is harder to stay behind.





	The Return

 

The dark-haired Silvan elf stopped in her tracks, her heart leaping in her chest with shock when she saw the Elven King seated upon his throne when all others had retired to rest or to commune with the trees under the light of the stars.

It seemed that he was sleeping, with his long figure reclined in an elegant sprawl and his ice-blue eyes open but glazed as he travelled down the sun dappled paths of his dreams. Suddenly the short-cut through the magnificent vault of the throne room seemed like the worst of ideas.

It was no secret that Thandruil was exhausted to the extent that his advisors were in a state of perpetual anxiety. He ignored their protests with disdain, failed to rest, barely ate. Already lean, he had gained an angularity to his frame, a sharpness to the bones of his cheeks, which made him appear ever more haughty and remote. The battles to defend his kingdom and the north from darkness had turned, on the fall of Sauron, to a fight to scour evil from Mirkwood. Responsibility is a heavy burden, but one to which he was long accustomed, and it was not by any means the heaviest load he bore. Scores of elves he had known for centuries had fallen, swept from immortality to obscurity with the slash of a sword or the poisoned tip of an orc arrow. News from the south arrived sporadically, some good, some bad, and none of it containing the words he desperately wanted to hear. So the Elven King soldiered on, a true warrior, his fae burning as brightly as a highly polished blade, a blade honed to the point where it was in imminent danger of shattering.

The elf withdrew cautiously on the silent feet of her kind, raising her eyes for a last, timid glance. Even sleeping, he was still regal, and beautiful in the way of the Sindar, although with the hard lines of his face relaxed in sleep he appeared more youthful and oddly vulnerable. It was not a word she would normally associate with the Elven King and it caused an unexpected surge of protectiveness and loyalty. He was Thranduil, son of Oropher, and she would die for him in an instant if it became necessary.

The wood elf slipped away, causing only the slightest movement of the air. On his throne the Elven King stirred and sighed, a tiny crease appearing between his dark brows. In the forest of his dreams he sensed a presence, a familiar, long sought presence. It startled him awake and he jerked upright on his seat, surprised to find that he had slept when it was not his intent. The presence was still there, tugging gently at the far edges of his consciousness, so faint and far away he was unsure if it was real or just a figment of his longing.

.

The weeks passed in a blur of activity but through it all the distant presence remained at the periphery of his awareness. It was confusing, sometimes seeming to be that which Thranduil awaited, but sometimes seeming to be something else entirely. As it drew nearer, it consumed more and more of his attention, until his mind was diverted from the simplest task and the most involved discussion alike. His advisors fretted, but to question the reason for the Elven King’s uncharacteristic lack of focus would bring down his wrath, and so the healers resigned themselves to watching over him from a distance.

There came a night when the moon was full, hanging heavy and low in the sky. The silver light resonated with power and its pull could be felt even in the deserted throne room where Thranduil brooded. He was drawn irresistibly out into the cool night air, finding himself distracted by the song of the moonbeams in a way he hadn’t been for centuries. The Captain of the Guard, taken by surprise, jumped to startled attention, unnoticed by his King who passed by as though in a trance. Concerned, he hastily beckoned some warriors who formed a loose defensive cordon around Thranduil as he wandered into the trees.

The Elven King slipped through the forest in silence until he reached an ancient beech that had survived the ravages of both orcs and spiders. He laid a slender hand upon its bark, absorbing the idle chatter of the trees and filtering out the one piece of news he awaited.  A moment later he was high in the branches, staring towards the edges of Mirkwood as the guard silently took up positions beneath the tree, close enough to be of assistance, but not so close as to cause offence.

Far above their heads, Thranduil's unnecessarily tight grip on a gnarled branch was an illustration of his anticipation, for the tree would never let him fall. The presence was very close now and yet more confusing than ever. It was the fae he longed for, but somehow inextricably mingled with others.

There was a distinct imprint of a man who was more than a just a man. Thranduil recognised it as the touch of the Ranger, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. But Aragorn was a King now and in his own kingdom far from Mirkwood. For all that, it was no great surprise that his fae had made a mark on that of Thranduil’s son.

More puzzling was the second fae emblazoned on that of his Greenleaf. It spoke in a deep voice of stone and the slow heartbeat of the mountains. It seemed almost dwarfish in tone, but it could not be possible that Legolas would have such a close friendship with a dwarf. Surely that could not be possible? Legolas would explain all when he came home.

When he came home. Simple words that set Thranduil’s heart aflame and brought tears to his eyes. Although it had been only a mere breath in the life of an elf, it had seemed an eternity since the Elven King received the news that his son and heir had volunteered to accompany the bearer of the ring on his journey towards Mordor. Thranduil had on many occasions felt bitter regret that, when Legolas left for Rivendell, their parting had been cold, with Legolas consumed by guilt at the escape of Gollum and the Elven King harsh in his disappointment. Oft he had wondered if his son would return, and more often if his son would even survive to return.

Legolas, his fae cried, Legolas!

For the first time there was an answer. Distant, weak and distorted, it was as though his son had thrown up barriers around himself; nonetheless to his horror Thandruil caught the cry of a gull, tasted the bitter tang of salt spray. Unknowing, he made a sharp sound of distress that drew the concerned attention of the guards. Their sharp eyes could see nothing wrong, only their King, pale as bone in the moonlight, hair a silver curtain as he stood tall in the beech tree.

The moon had long since slid down behind the trees and moon beams had given way to the grey light of dawn when Thranduil gracefully descended.

“Leave me. I wish to be alone.”

There was a majesty in his tone, in the languid wave of his hand, which left no room for argument, not that the guard were accustomed to arguing with their King. They retreated uneasily, the piercing gaze and stern features following their withdrawal until they disappeared even from elven sight.

Long moments later, a tired horse bearing a cloaked figure came into sight amongst the trees. Thranduil took a single step into the dew wet grass and paused, standing proud and straight, his thumping heart and trembling legs hidden beneath the intricate patterns of his fine clothing and long boots. The horse approached slowly, aware of the Elven King’s presence but finding him no threat. Exhaustion lent a dreamlike quality to its gait, the image reinforced by the mist wreathing around its legs and forming a hazy backdrop to the green cloak of its rider.

When the figure let its hood fall, it took all of Thranduil’s considerable will to retain his regal posture and keep his features under control. It was his child, and yet not his child. The Prince, a seasoned warrior long before he left Mirkwood, had in some ways seemed barely more than a youth in the counting of elves when he departed for Rivendell. He was a youth no more. Beneath the carefully crafted surface he presented to others, he was worn and battle-scarred. There were shutters on his eyes and on his soul, for he had seen terrible darkness and survived. He was a warrior still, more than ever, but he was not unscathed.

“Legolas. Ion-nin.”

Thranduil’s words were but a breath, but his son heard them and his weary head lifted. Eyes of blue, momentarily unguarded, revealed the depth of the hurt he carried.

“Ai.” The Elven King hissed, absorbing the pain held close in his son’s heart, shared with none other until this moment. His fae reached out, understanding only too well the unspoken true horror of war and the spilling of the blood of thousands of beings, mortal and immortal alike. This he had experienced for himself, and like his son he too had locked it away inside, creating an intricate armour of disdain and control behind which to hide. No doubt Legolas’s armour was of a different mould, more humour and mischievous cheer. It had ever been so, even when his Greenleaf was a tiny elfling.

Legolas slid down from his mount, his gaze fixed on his father. He took an uncertain step forwards, unsure of his reception.

“Adar,” he whispered. “I did not expect…”

Thranduil did not know what Legolas expected, he did not know what he’d anticipated himself, but this battle hardened warrior with his branded fae was still his son and he loved him more than immortal life itself.

“Legolas,” he repeated, his voice deep and broken as he took a long stride forwards and enfolded his son in his arms. For a moment Legolas was frozen, unsure against his chest, then finally he returned the embrace and Thranduil felt the barriers crumble and fall to dust.

“Ada…I…”

The words stuttered and fell to silence as Legolas began to shake. Thranduil found he had no reply, not yet, so he held his child tight in his arms and hid their tears from the world beneath the cascade of golden hair they shared.

It would have been better by far if Legolas had never seen the foulness of Mordor. But he had survived and he was home. For now, that was enough.

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Positive comments and kudos make me very happy :-)
> 
> Thranduil and Legolas belong to JRR Tolkien. Playing with the characters in fanfiction is entirely without financial gain and is by way of tribute.


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